


How To Kill Your Lover Again

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-16
Updated: 2004-05-16
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7094122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to How To Kill Your Lover, Wesley is still not in the greatest state and mind and has no problem bringing people down with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Kill Your Lover Again

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

It should be gut-wrenchingly hard to kill your lover.

But it isn’t. It’s really quite easy. Especially when the lover in question never was quite your lover. 

Just take an axe…

The woman and the girl dance seductively before my vision, throwing each other nasty looks. Both waltz over to me, bow, and move away, waiting for me to decide. The woman teasingly plays with long strand of pearls around her neck, while the girl impatiently hops on her toes. When I move towards them, they start to blur together, into a woman wearing childish clothes, and then fades away like the dust of a staked vampire, leaving me with neither of them. 

The shattered glasses left behind the day I tried to merge woman and girl still reside in a drawer, next to a worn dollar bill, a few torn Italian lace thongs, a 15th century copy of Dante’s Inferno, and a loaded gun I long to aim at my skull.

My perceptions are completely messed up, my reality painfully intruding. I have the "Gone With the Wind Syndrome", as I like to call it. When it’s too late, you realize how much you should have appreciated what you have. Life is spent lusting after someone else, and if you ever get the desperately desired one, she just isn’t what you really wanted…

The girl deserves retribution. She never tried to snap me out of my reverie. She must have liked having two men at her beck and call. Because of her selfishness, I lost my precious selfish half. 

She will pay the same way my mistress of the dark paid. In blood. 

Let it fall…

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the complete and final fall of man. Sounds like a nice eulogy. 

What will they say in my eulogy? Would I rather die peacefully in my sleep or go out fighting? I can’t imagine having a peaceful death. More likely I’ll be returned to the dust by the vampire. I make mistakes, and these mistakes kill people. One of them will probably kill me. 

People like me never learn; although I try hard, it does not change. She was right, I was making a big mistake. I am always making mistakes- that mistake, that mistake of Angelus, the mistake of her death. Mistakes are deadly, as I have learned.

Watch its’ descent…

Hark, I hear the funeral dirge ringing in my ears. The bells have been ringing since the deed was done, and I cannot stop them. The glass shatters and rains down like tears, but the tintinnabulation continues. Slitting my wrists with shards of a broken whisky bottle does not stop it either. 

Holding my dripping wrists over the floor, I observe the pattern of droplets on the floor. They seem to spell out an unfinished message, which requires more life's blood to reveal the complete missive.

I never read the message from beyond. My comrades in arms stopped me. They wiped away the words and dried up the ink. They are forever stopping me. Well, it seems I cannot die. But if you’re this close to dying, you don’t mind bringing others down with you, bringing down a world that is heading to Hell in a handbasket anyway. Misery does love company.

Observe the length of the incision… 

In this night, I am always dreaming a little dream. Rarely is it a pleasant one. I dream of chaos and disorder, my nightmares reflecting my situation. Evil is incomplete without the descent of chaos. If there were some order left in the world, there might be hope. Unfortunately, all we have is faith. She who tortured me with insidious intent and was then embraced into the fold because of her bad situation, like the murderers on death row: "No one ever befriended me, so that’s why I became a psychopathic tormenter." 

But faith alone will not save this world beyond saving, we need a miracle. But miracles are in short supply, if not totally used up. 

The darkness approaches from the corners of my eyes, creeping and engulfing, even seducing me into the expansive embrace of the ebony twilight.

I accept the inevitable, I accept the pain, I accept the dark and the guilt and the grief. I accept the loss of so many things I once had, of the woman who once had me. 

See the bloody stump…

I am in the basement now, the same place I stood a millennia ago. There is a bare wooden table standing alone in the middle of the room, with a sheet of plastic draped over it. It is déjà vu; the sound of my breathing, the scent of death, the sorrow in the air. I move over to the table, and hastily rip off the plastic. 

She lies there, motionless on the table, her lovely hair streaming over the wood. Her breasts fall and rise with each breath she takes, her fingers clutching the plastic weakly.

I run my finger down the blade of the axe, drawing a thin line of blood. The sting shocks me back to task. I raise the axe again, again. I cannot stop, I am on autopilot. It is the story of Isaac’s sacrifice again. The blade drops and the head rolls to the cold floor, eyes wide and staring, the last breathe caught in her throat.

And I stand there, laughing with cruel joy yet crying in pain at the same time, for I cannot tell whose head lies in front of me on the floor. 

Gaze upon the lovely head on the floor…again.


End file.
